


Deep Into the Mountain Sound

by Natileroxs



Series: Hold Your Horses Now [3]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Abuse, Acceptance, Beta Read, Forgiveness, Gen, I don't touch on them too much, Mind Control, One Shot, Regret, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Thoughts, Swearing, Time Travel, all cal’s fault, give bro a break, he didn’t do nothing wrong, minor in those regards, they're just there in the background
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-21
Updated: 2018-08-21
Packaged: 2019-06-30 13:24:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15752568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Natileroxs/pseuds/Natileroxs
Summary: You stand with your back turned and you keep on wishing that you hadn't done what you had.(read tags)





	Deep Into the Mountain Sound

**Author's Note:**

> God, I love this chapter so much. I didn't realise how much I like writing poetic self-depreciation and bottled up emotions leaking out. 
> 
> #Brodidnothingwrong
> 
> Big thanks to my friend ArcOnyx for beta reading this.

He is… you don’t actually know. Everything deep inside of you cries that he is your child, that you need to protect him and care for him. Your body does the exact opposite. While you scream, your mouth is sealed tightly shut. While you beg to hold him, to take him into your arms and tell him that he’s the best motherfucker in the world, all you do is slip by him. When you want to protect him, you instead attack. When you wish to help him recover from the wounds you gave him, you simply leave him to take care of himself.

 

You aren’t so stupid to think that everything is Cal’s fault. Some of it, maybe. But it is your fault.

 

It’s always been your fault. You’re a fuck up, a mistake. You break everything you love, and he is no different.

 

The one time you’d broken out of yourself was when he was quite young, younger than he is now. He’d gotten so pissed, more so then he’d ever been before, and snapped his sword clean in half. He’d then tossed the pointed end off the roof and it had nosedived right to the ground. You’d turned to stare at him, genuine concern lighting your eyes, and he had stomped clumsily down the steps to your apartment.

 

Instead of confronting him, you’d trekked your way down to the ground floor, left the building, taken the cheap, plastic sword and tossed it into a dumpster, so that strangers wouldn’t see it or question it. Afterward, you’d sat outside his door and listened to him cry, and rubbed your eyes with your palms, completely silent and still, taking in the true reality of the situation you’d created.

 

And that’s why you now shift your feet as you stand at the edge of the roof where he had cast away his most prized possession years ago. He lay on the ground behind you, breathing softly with eyes closed in uneasy unconsciousness. That’s your fault, you tell yourself, leaning over to see the ground. You’re the reason he’s hurt. It’s always your fault.

 

The silence is deafening and your heart thuds in your chest. You close your eyes slowly, letting your hand come up to your face and tear your crappy sunglasses away. You then blink and stare out at the cityscape, the high rise buildings, busy streets. And the sunset, warm and bright, yet fading away. Like him.

 

You let your eyes shut again and you feel weightless.

 

Something shifts behind you. Almost purposely. You open your eyes again.

 

A small cough, like this something is trying to get your attention. It is probably a figment of your imagination, an illusion created by your slow descent into insanity. But that little bit of hope clung tightly to you, as if it were a child, refusing to let go.  

 

You step back, away from the edge, and turn.

 

The first thing you see is the shine of metal, real, strong steel. Instead of meeting at a point, the sword is half its usual size and has jagged ends with a golden hilt. The next thing you notice is the cape, flapping lightly in the wind, a dark garnet red. Then you see his face. His half frown, short sideburns, and thick blond hair. Then the round aviators hiding his eyes behind shadows, sunlight glinting off the edges.

 

He lets the sword clatter to the ground and just stares. Or you assume he’s staring, you can’t quite tell behind the sunglasses he’s wearing. You guess it’s why you yourself are so hard to read.

 

His mouth parts slightly in what you can only concur is his version of gaping, as if he’s so shocked he’s broken his cool guy persona by margins he never thought possible. You can’t say you're at all surprised, as you too have lost all sense of stability. Lost your mind more like it.

 

“Well,” he lets out a whisper, and with the stillness in the air, you can hear it despite how far apart the both of you are, “fuck.”

 

You fight the urge to bite your lip, shock slowly loosening its hold on you until you finally come enough to your senses to figure out something is definitely wrong.

 

You stiffen, attempting to reattach your mask, to shield your emotions. It doesn’t work. “Who are you?” You croak out, despite the sickening realisations that eat at the back of your mind. He raises his eyebrows over his glasses and purses his lips, yet you can see his hands shake. He then places a finger on the aviators and raises them to sit in his hair.

 

His crimson eyes make you finally give into the reality of who exactly the boy possibly could be.

 

“Dave?” Your voice echoes in silence of the roof. “What the fuck?”

 

He shrugs. His arms hang at his sides now, swinging slowly. “I have no clue what happened. Some time travel shit, if I had to guess.” He looks uncertain. “It doesn’t really make sense though.”

 

You simply stare at him as he thinks. His sharp chin and broad shoulders only added to the visible strider gene - somewhere in the back of your mind you knew that the two of you were the only striders to ever have existed, but you weren’t going to think about that the moment - which made you more certain this was your little brother. Except for the fact that he is not a young, somewhat happy, 6-year-old. His eyes had lost some of their life, he’d seen some shit.

 

They remind you of your own, which stare accusingly at you every single time you pass the mirror. You avoid mirrors like the plague because of that. His scars creep up his neck and don’t quite reach his face. You catch a glimpse at the darker hood that lays atop the cape that reminds you of those cliche superheroes. You figure that’s the point.

 

“You say that like you’re an expert,” You don’t mean for it to come out so harsh, and as soon as the words leave your mouth, you regret them. They’re too casual, they sound too much like your usual bouts, the ones you hate so much. It’s like you’re trying to gather the little bits of self-confidence to shield yourself from his gaze, but there isn’t enough because he sees right through you.

 

“I can’t believe this is what you really were like,” He looks a little bewildered, but you simply focus on the word ‘were’. Why past tense? What had happened?

 

Not that that was a big concern right now, as it was more important that you figure out what the hell is happening. “Seriously, what the hell?” He keeps shaking, like it’s hard to hold himself every time you spoke, whether your words were serious or a cover for your strangling anxiety and growing horror.

 

“I don’t know,” He admitted, sinking into himself a little. “You know, you’re much different to what I remember. You were,” He paused for a minute. “You were colder, more put together and certain. It’s,” he stumbles back slightly before catching himself, “it’s strange, to see you so flawed.” You almost protest. “So… human.”

 

You slowly lower yourself to the ground, running your fingers through your hair as you struggle with the confusion and looming terror. He slowly, uncertainly, steps over to you and kneels in front of you.

 

“What the hell is this?” You hear your own voice before you realise you’re speaking. He places a timid hand onto your shoulder and you lean forward. Before you know it, your eyes are watering. He presses his forehead against yours, slow tears splattering on the concrete.

 

“I don’t know, bro.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you liked it, I certainly liked writing it.


End file.
